


Worth a Thousand Words

by FadedSepia



Series: Mandatory Fun Day Prompts [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Jarvis is a Dapper House Elf, Lucky is an Owl, M/M, Redwing is an Owl, Wizarding Photographs, dragon preserve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: From across the carriage, Nat waved gently, the movement drawing his attention before she began to sign. ‘Excited?’He was, absolutely. Getting a job right out of school had always been the goal, even before he’d gotten to Hogwarts. Having one that let him see dragons - baby dragons - was phenomenal. Still, Clint wasn’t entirely at ease. ‘Nervous.’‘Why?’Clint tilted his head, pointing his finger at his ear, knowing it was answer enough.⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛⟗⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛Despite everything, Clint gets his dream job straight out of school. Still, nothing is perfect, and this internship might turn out to be a nightmare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to Fox and Anna for the beta and read-throughs, and to Fox for the title. (Yay for corny!)
> 
> I'm still not sure if I want to keep this a one-shot (ya'll know me by now), but I also _couldn't_ finish my entire idea in three days for MFD, so... Yeah, I'll try to do more if folks wanna read it, or if I get up the time and motivation?

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“End of term! We’re finally free forever!” Scott barreled into their shared room, still in his formal robes, throwing himself across Clint’s bed with a loud woop. “Ready to roll, Barton? I don't want to be all alone with Hope and Natasha.”

“Hope likes you.” He tossed a pillow onto Lang’s face, digging his journal out from under the edge of his mattress and tucking it behind his back as Scott sighed.

“Well she has a funny way of showing it.”

Clint shrugged. As discreetly as he could with Scott being right there, he slid the little leatherbound book into his trunk. He’d just have to leave it on top and hope nobody opened the lid. Even if they did, though, he trusted his spellwork enough to keep the book from opening for anyone but him. He might be garbage with potions, but Clint Barton had excelled at charms and hexes.

He lifted Lucky from his cage, letting the little owl settle into his hair, and prodded his roommate. “We’re going to be stuck with the firsties if you don’t hurry up and change.”

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Scott had fallen asleep on him an hour into the ride, leaving Clint stuck in his seat. Hope had pulled out her headphones, cast a silencing charm on her own half of the bench she was sharing with Natasha, and nodded off as well.

From across the carriage, Nat waved gently, the movement drawing his attention before she began to sign. _‘Excited?’_

He was, absolutely. Getting a job right out of school had always been the goal, even before he’d gotten to Hogwarts. Having one that let him see dragons - baby dragons - was phenomenal. Still, Clint wasn’t entirely at ease. _‘Nervous.’_

_‘Why?’_

Clint tilted his head, pointing his finger at his ear, knowing it was answer enough.

Between muggle parents that were convinced he’d been possessed and had tried to beat the magic out of him, and a bad incident with the whomping willow in his fifth year, Clint had lost most of his hearing. The charms helped, but he could only use them for so long without a headache. Which left him deaf, muggleborn, two years behind in graduating, and pretty much broke at the end of things; not the best prospect for any apprenticeship.

Clint was certain Nat had asked Mr. Coulson to pull some strings to get him in, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d take what he could get.

Nat waved, again, frowning. _‘You’re smart. And sturdy. They’ll like you. If not-’_ She quirked one brow, smirking.

Clint never had figured out how she kept charming her wand into a stiletto, but it made him smile every time.

He giggled, and Scott snorted against his arm. _‘Thank you, Nat.’_

_‘You’re welcome.’_

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“You’re certain someone is meeting you there? I’ll be happy to go with you…”

“Thanks, Mr. Coulson. For everything, but...” Clint rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, toeing the ground. “I’m used to packing up and moving. And I’ll get some time off in a few months.”

“And you’ll send an owl once in a while?” He couldn’t remember seeing Nat’s dad look this nervous, even when he’d signed on to be Clint’s guardian back in fourth year. Not that it was so obvious, aside from this little bit of fussing; all three of the Coulsons were pretty tight-lipped. At least, usually. “Or call. You have your spelled phone, right?”

“Right, yeah, of course. As long as Lucky can make it, we’ll be good. Right buddy?” He gave the little tawny owl perched atop his head a pet. For his part, Lucky snuggled down into Clint’s hair, making a quite literal bird’s nest of it.

As Mr. Coulson stepped back, Natasha slipped in to give him a hug, squeezing tightly despite her size; Wanda pressed in to the hug a moment later, leaving him sandwiched between them.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Clint.” Wanda pulled away, her sister letting go a moment later. “Or call first, at least?”

“Stupid without you two? Never.”

 _‘Be safe.’_ Nat smiled, giving him a last hug before stepping back to stand with the rest of her family.

He picked up his offer letter. He’d never travelled by portkey before, but Nat had shown him the little square that would set off the spell. Grabbing the handle of his trunk with his other hand, Clint pressed his thumb over the outlined square, watching as the world pulled in on itself and blinked away.

When reality rushed back out, it was cold, and windy, and very, very high up; no one had warned Clint he’d be dropped onto the side of a mountain!

He immediately reached for the top of his head, untangling Lucky from his hair and tucking the little golden saw-whet inside his coat before he zipped it up. With Clint’s own – usually _bad_ – luck, he would have blown away, and, with only one eye, Lucky was an unstable flyer at best, even in good weather.

He had only just grasped the handle of his trunk when someone shouted behind him.

A man was jogging up the path, arms waving over his head. He wasn’t any taller than Clint, but he was built like a half giant, sporting jeans and a hideous blue and red knitted sweater with a white star embroidered in the middle. There would have been no missing him, even if his voice hadn’t been echoing up the path. He spoke with enough projection that Clint thought he might be able to understand the guy even with his ears un-charmed. “Hey! Hi, there!”

He stopped close enough that Clint reflexively took a step back.

The stranger followed suit, his broad smile a band of perfect white teeth framed by a neat blond beard. He lifted his hand, palm pressing to his chest. “I’m Steve Rogers.” Steve was clearly concentrating, eyes flicking from Clint to his hand as he spelled out his name. The man’s motions were clunky, and took a while, but Clint had to give him credit for trying to sign a greeting.

“Thank you,” Clint signed along with that, though he tucked his free hand into his pocket before continuing. He hadn’t realized North Dakota was this cold, especially not in August. “I usually spell my ears, plus I’ve got hearing charms for work, and I know a lot of dictation spells. As long as people aren’t talking over each other, I’m okay.”

“Oh. Great. File said you signed, but that’s all I had time to learn.” Steve shrugged, looking genuinely apologetic. “Don’t worry; we can use whatever works best for you, Clinton.”

“Just Clint is great, Mr. Rogers.”

“Okay, Clint.” He held out his hand, grip firm when they shook. “Steve. Everyone is on a first name basis here; easier to yell when things go wrong.”

“That happen often?”

“Ehh… more than we’d like, less than you might expect?” Steve grabbed his trunk, lifting it one handed to balance on his shoulder. “Let’s get you settled into your bunk and unpacked. Dinner’s in an hour.”

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The Shield Dragon Preserve was built to nestle into the side of the cliff-face, and consisted of a half dozen buildings clustered together, connected by a series of corridors. Steve walked him to the closest one, yanking the door open and motioning Clint inside. “This is the personnel wing. We’re all sort of on top of each other in here, so keep your stuff tucked away.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Washroom was that first door on the left.” Steve stopped at the end of the hallway. He pulled a brass key from his pants pocket, opening the last door. “Sorry. This corner room is the coldest when it’s cold, hottest when it’s hot, but you’re the new guy, so…”

“It’s fine.” Clint stepped into what would, for the foreseeable future, be his home. The room was bigger than he’d anticipated, about four metres by five. His bed was full-sized, but he was sure he could spell it a tad longer, just so his feet didn’t hang off. There was a battered wooden desk and chair beneath the lone window, a standing closet, and even a little sink and vanity behind the door. Coming straight out of a school dorm, it was more than he was used to. “Way better than sleeping in a tree.”

Steve pushed him further into the room and set Clint’s truck at the foot of the bed. “That happen often?”

“More than you might expect?” He shrugged, embarrassed.

“Well, not too many trees left standing around here, so you’re stuck with this bunk.” Steve gave him a good natured – if far too heavy – pat on the shoulder. He stepped back into the hall and rapped his knuckles on the nearest door. “Hey?”

There was a loud bang, followed by a string of cursing. After a moment, a voice replied from the other side, muffled, but distinctly pissed off. “What?”

“Walk Clint down for dinner later.”

“Clint?”

Steve huffed. “New guy? He’s right here, if you want to _greet_ him.”

“Fine.” The door cracked, a gauntleted hand slipping through the gap to wave. “Hey, newbie. See you in forty.”

The door slammed shut.

Steve turned back to him, offering Clint an apologetic shrug. “He’s… not very social? But he’s good at his job. Just takes a while to warm up to new people.”

“It’s fine. I gotta unpack, anyway.” Clint closed the door with a smile. It wasn’t much time, but he didn’t own too much stuff, either. He could at least un-shrink and hang up his clothes.

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The pounding on his door at five past was heavy enough that Clint could feel the vibration in the floor. “Coming!” He tripped out of his desk chair, sending Lucky into a tumble off of his head. Yanking his wand out of his pocket, he tapped against the back of his ears.

He could hear the voice from earlier, now coming from the other side of his door. “New guy? You eating?”

He unlocked the door, starting to walk out and immediately running into the solid mass of man just outside. Clint stepped back into the doorway, sputtering as he looked down. “Yeah, yes, I’m so-”

The guy standing in the hall outside his doorway was nearly as wide as Steve, solid but shorter, head coming just to Clint’s nose, wearing a worn Hufflepuff sweatshirt. A few days’ worth of stubble covered his face, and his brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun.

Clint looked down into a pair of embarrassingly familiar bright blue eyes and felt the breath die in his lungs. He reflexively glanced back at his trunk; closed and latched. “Sorry. I’m, uh… I’m sorry…”

“It’s past seven. Are you coming to dinner, newbie?” The man crossed his arms, chin tipped up as he spoke. When Clint didn’t respond, he lifted his hand, jerkily moving his fingers through the sign, clearly exasperated. _‘Food.’_

Clint nodded.

Hallway Hottie huffed, lifting both hands, still wearing the weird glove. With his fingers bent to _‘Y,’_ he lifted then dropped them quickly. _‘Now.’_ Not waiting for an answer, the man started off down the hallway.

“Yeah, sure, just, uh…” Clint glanced back into his room, eyeing the trunk at the foot of his bed. He slammed his door and, swallowing the lump in his throat, hurried to catch up.

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Dinner, and meeting the rest of his co-workers, was both more and less awkward than Clint had expected it to be. Steve, being pleasantly gregarious, had insisted that everyone on the preserve introduce themselves, leaving him with a confusing list of people and jobs to remember.

There was Hill, don’t call me _Maria,_ who managed researchers visiting the facility, with the same creepily knowing smile as Mr. Coulson. He’d gotten to meet Carol, with whom Steve worked monitoring the wild adult dragons and retrieving any abandoned clutches. Tony, who managed their safety equipment, had whizzed by long enough to take his measurements for his fire gear, a bespokely suited house-elf – _“You’ll get used to Jarvis.”_ – trailing at his heels. And of course, there was Hallway Hottie, the man he’d had the awkward joy of sitting next to throughout the rushed meal.

When they finally got around the table to him, he didn’t even bother looking up from his soup, only nodding and offering a clipped introduction. “Triple C. James.”

Despite the man’s brusqueness, Clint felt himself relaxing. _James._ Perfect. This was just one of those odd coincidences of life; James might _look_ similar, but he wasn’t who Clint had initially thought he was. Granted, he was still distractingly handsome, but Clint could learn to work with, or at least _in spite of,_ the man’s good looks.

“Don’t be an asshole, tell him whatcha actually do.” From James’ other side, Steve punched him in the shoulder, making Clint wince with sympathy. “And nobody but your ma calls you _that.”_

“Fine. Clutch care coordinator. I turn and manage the hatchlings, which means I get bit a lot.” He offered Clint his hand, grip firm as they shook. “Bucky.”

“What?!”

“Your ears wear off, again, new guy?” Bucky turned sideways to Steve, whispering in a way he probably thought Clint wouldn’t notice. “How do I do _B,_ again?”

“Like this” Clint formed the letter without thinking, nervously looking down when both men turned back to face him. “Sorry, my ears are on, just, um, kinda surprised was all. Thought you looked like somebody I, uh, knew…”

⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛⟗⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛

Clint had mumbled his way through an apology at dinner, and he was pretty certain Bucky, and probably Tony and Carol, thought he was an idiot. Maria had excused herself shortly after. Steve had tried to smooth things over, and Clint had done his best to roll with it. Bucky hadn’t said anything else, right up until he’d left the table.

Now Clint was back in his room, alarm set – and fuck was 4:30 am an ungodly hour – changed into his pyjamas, and was sitting at the foot of his bed. He looked back at his door one last time. It was spelled to blink if someone was knocking, and he’d attached a permanent dictation charm on it to write out anything said outside. He’d also locked it, warded it shut, and shoved his chair under the door handle for good measure.

Clint had unpacked his clothes, and most of his necessities, before dinner, which left only the personal knickknacks he hadn’t had time to put away yet still inside the trunk. He lifted the lid, peering down at his few prized possessions. There were his magical creatures and dragon-care textbooks in one corner, and his bow and quiver, mounted inside the lid. He had a spare pair of work boots, and sneakers for any time off; the knitted scarf and cap Wanda had foisted on him, and the heavy coat he’d never have been able to afford without help from Mr. Coulson. Scott’s miniaturizing spell stickers nestled in beside a few gryphon feathers from Sam, and there were four vials of Nat’s homemade burn balm. And, tucked inside the cover of a non-descript journal, there were the pictures.

He pulled out the book, already feeling guilty as he cracked the cover on his diary, letting the three pictures fall down onto his lap. Clint fanned them out across the comforter; he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t not look.

The first was, on the whole, barely a tease. The young man in the photo was smiling shyly, brown hair cut short, but with bangs just long enough to drift into his bright blue eyes. He knelt on the Hogwarts’ dormitory bed – _Clint’s_ bed; he could tell by the cracked finial – in a baggy Hufflepuff sweatshirt that fell just past his thighs, smiling coyly at the camera. Like all wizarding photos, the image captured a short loop of time, letting Clint watch the blush creep up and across those perfect cheekbones.

In the second picture, he was turned away from the camera. The sweatshirt was lifted, pulled up as if he had been caught halfway through removing it. It left his pert ass on display as he looked back over his shoulder, winking at the viewer. It was staged, the expression too teasing to reflect a genuine surprise, coy and alluring. To be honest, it was probably Clint’s favourite; that tempting smile hinted at myriad possibilities, and Clint had spent many a lonely night imaging each and every one of them.

But it was that third photo, the one that Clint _knew_ he shouldn’t have held on to, that was going to make keeping this job so damnably hard. There was no denying it; he’d filled out in all the best ways, grown out his hair and roughed up around the edges, but this was _clearly_ the man he’d met at dinner. This younger Bucky – and, shit, the guy was asleep across the hall, for fuck’s sake! – was facing the frame, again, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. The sweatshirt was wadded up beside him, and he was staring straight out of the photograph, a languid smile on his face and his cock in his hand. That hand moved – up, down, back up – the photograph perpetually looping the image of Bucky slowly jerking himself off.

This was the only photograph that was signed. Clint knew the words of fading text written on the back by heart: _Happy 7 th Year! ~ Yours, B._

Clint pressed his fingers to his temples with a groan. How many times had he put silencing charms on his bed curtains and indulged in thoughts of the young man in those photos?

Of course, it had been harmless, back then. Clint hadn’t known who he was. The guy had been gone by the time Clint had moved into the Hufflepuff dorms, and _B_ wasn’t exactly an uncommon initial. Even he had a _B!_ Squinting through years of class photographs had been no help, either. Trying to find a single – if perfect – face among a sea of identical seventh year faces was the _Where’s Wally_ from hell!

And, while finding the photographs wedged under his mattress that first year had been a shock, and he’d been tempted to pitch them out, he never had. They’d become his, secret and special; only Natasha knew about them, and he’d never actually _shown_ them to her. By his third year, the images had been a regular go-to, especially when Clint needed a pick-me-up.

It wasn’t just that the guy in them – the same guy who now thought he was an _idiot_ – was hot. It was the thought that, whoever he was, he’d slept in Clint’s bed, slept right _there_ looking like _that._ It was easy to imagine him there still, snuggling up to Clint when he couldn’t go home over the holidays, listening to him rant about stupid Professor Banner’s three-hour exams, comforting him when Doctor Cho told him his hearing wasn’t going to improve. Knowing that he’d been real, clutching onto the childish fantasy of meeting him, had gotten Clint through a lot of garbage.

And now he was two doors away. He had a name – _Bucky_ – that was as adorable as the coy grin seared into Clint’s memories. He had a voice, low and even, soft in spite of the clip to his words.

And Clint Barton had a serious problem.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint spends time with one of his coworkers and finally gets to see a Norby up close... Maybe up a little _too_ close...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Fox_MacLir, ReyStarkRogers, and WeepingNaid for their feedback and support, and to Sevdrag for sharing the macro with me that shaved an hour off of putting HTML on this thing.
> 
> I know that Clint has a sign for Hawkeye. I wanted to give him a sign for his own non-work personal name. Massive thanks to Elenorasweet for her help with it, and all upcoming name signs.

⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛⟗⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛

The room was still dark as the pillow started buzzing beneath his cheek. Clint punched his fist into it, pressing his face back into the fluffy down with a groan. The sun wouldn’t be up for another two hours, he still had a headache from the day before, and he hadn’t even gotten to see a Norby up close, yet. He dragged himself out of bed to his sink. Behind him, Lucky snuggled back into the pillow, feathers fluffing as he tucked his head beneath his wing.

After splashing some water onto his face, he pulled on what was swiftly becoming his uniform: jeans, work boots, a waffle-weave henley, and a few fire-retarding spells cast over the lot. That was really all he could manage at this hour. Clint debated using a hearing charm on his ears versus a dictation spell on his hand, settling on the former. It would be the lesser of two headaches at least; he had a morning fitting with Tony, and that might involve gloves. Clint took a last look back at his bed, envious of the little owl sleeping there, then trudged his way down the main corridor.

The dining and communal spaces were in the next building and, as was swiftly becoming a pattern, Clint was the last one to arrive. He settled himself at the table between Mr. Stark and Director Hill, pouring a cup of coffee and trying not to fall into it as he served out his breakfast. Burnt toast, burnt eggs, burnt bacon, hell, even the coffee had a scorched taste to it, and Bucky was nowhere in sight; smart, since it was clear Steve had done the cooking.

Clint poured himself a second cup and went hunting in the refrigerator for cream. Finding only milk, he shuffled back to his seat.

Despite his worries, avoiding Bucky during his first week had been relatively easy. Carol had brought in three more clutches, so the source of his guilt had been swamped settling the eggs in.

Without having gotten his gear yet, Clint had been left to mostly help with paperwork; the director had forbidden him from going into the field or hatchery, and had even warned him off of helping Mr. Stark until yesterday. Clint hadn’t expected his first week of work at a _dragon preserve_ to be so… mundane and, frankly, boring.

The most exciting moment so far had been Hill having to extinguish Steve when it was his turn to cook the morning after Clint had arrived. As the only one actually, _naturally_ awake – “ _The monster,”_ he’d heard Tony growl as he rinsed his plate – Steve got breakfast duty more often than not. Clint choked down a mouthful of eggs, which were only made worse by his addition of pepper. At least he could temper the coffee with milk.

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The time after breakfast was allocated for getting his fire gear. Clint drifted his way down the hall, still clutching his terrible coffee, headed for the intricately carved door of Tony’s office. He found Jarvis waiting for him outside.

The elf stood rigidly in his button down shirt and vest, coat draped over his arm. He smiled up at Clint, stepping forward from the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Barton. We will be meeting Sir in the workshop.”

That piqued his curiosity. Director Hill had very specifically told him not to go there – “ _For your own sani- safety.” –_ and Clint couldn’t deny that he wondered what was so dangerous that he was now suddenly allowed to see.

He followed after Jarvis, surprised by how quickly he moved, given his height and short legs. The house-elf led them down a series of long corridors that branched out from the office space. “This space is for visiting researchers; rather sparse compared with your quarters.” Jarvis’ voice piped up from below. “How are you finding your own accommodations?”

“Great. I mean, breakfast not so much, but at least I won’t gain too much weight, but, um…” This was the perfect time to ask a question that had been on his mind since he realized there was a house-elf on the preserve. “Do you go into our rooms?

“Generally, no, unless you request it, Mr. Barton.”

That was a relief; no risk of Jarvis finding anything Clint was still not sure what to do with.

They turned another corner, walking down a hallway lined with doors and open doorways, each a slightly different height or width. Clint noted that most had notes or signs over their frames, numbers and letters that probably served as some sort of label, though he couldn’t make sense of it.

Jarvis led him through another series of turns and junctures with practiced ease – “Should you ever get lost, you need only follow the red arrows and the smell of burnt hair.” – bringing the two of them to what he assumed was the door leading to Tony’s work space. There was a sigil just about the knob, a carving of a circle transcribed by a triangle that glowed vaguely blue, the whole thing surrounded by curlicues of spell Latin. Jarvis tapped a series of words, and the door swung open before them.

“We’ll be going in through the storeroom, I’m afraid. Watch your step.” The house-elf paused, glancing up at Clint, wide mouth drawing into a pensive frown. “And probably your head.”

Clint was left to follow after him into the dimly lit storage room, the door latching behind him as he took in the cluttered space.

Every surface that wasn’t covered in bits of spell-o-taped paper was home to some piece of equipment, or a bolt of leather, or some tiny metallic something that Clint was too nervous to touch. Floating pieces of parchment – some barely the size of a postage stamp, others that must have been a metre across – filled the space between the top of his head and the high ceiling, drifting in slow moving clumps. A few floated low enough that they brushed along his forehead. “What _is_ all this?”

“Notes. Sir has a… system.” The house-elf, having already crossed the room, slipped gingerly between two piles of closely stacked books.

Clint struggled to wedge himself through, stumbling a bit, but trailing Jarvis as he opened a second door onto something that, to Clint, looked more like an airplane hangar than what anyone normal might call a workshop.

Clint blinked, scanning the room as his eyes readjusted. Where the last room had been a dark and cluttered jumble, this one seemed sparsely furnished, empty save for a few large work tables, and painfully bright white; it felt downright sterile after the space through which they’d just passed. There were a few cases at one end of the room, housing different sets of fireproof and dragon-safe gear. Something that looked a lot like a flamethrower rested beside several barrels labelled _FOR FIRE_ along one wall, and there was a massive garage door opposite.

In the middle stood Mr. Stark, looking much more chipper than he had at breakfast. “Clint! Ready to suit up?”

Clint nodded, but couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his gut.

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He fidgeted, trying to stand still for this final fitting; Clint had been playing living mannequin for nearly two hours as he made micro-adjustments to each piece of equipment. “How’s it looking, Mr. Stark?”

“Will you stop calling me that?” Tony snapped up at him from where he was fiddling at a buckle. He raked his fingers through salt and pepper hair, eyeing Clint over the square frames of his glasses. “Please, I already feel old – been here longer than anybody else, anyway – and I don’t need any more reminders. Tony or, if you’re on fire bad, Stark. But _just_ _Stark_.”

Clint nodded, focused on standing still.

Tony was older, sure, but he didn’t seem that old to Clint. He wasn’t _ancient_ ; he was no Professor Ross. The fact that wizards tended to live longer wasn’t because they aged more slowly, and Clint would have put Tony Stark maybe, _possibly_ , at a little past sixty. There was enough grey at his temples to look distinguished, and enough in his short beard to make him look haggard without sleep.

He was surprisingly pleasant – as per Director Hill’s dictum, Clint hadn’t seen too much of him until yesterday – but talking with Tony gave him more than a bit of a headache.

Clint was still floored that everyone at Shield had taken the initiative to learn a bit of ASL, at least finger spelling, before he got there. It was mostly simple phrases, lots of _Thank you_ and _Food_ and _Hurry_ and _Stop_ , but it was still touching. Aside from his adoptive family and a few school friends, nobody ever put in the effort, even to meet him halfway. When Carol had actually taken the time to sign out _I’m sorry_ for running into him in the hall, he’d been left on the verge of tears.

The problem was that, although he knew a little sign, and although Clint could expect basic greetings and at least attempts from him, he was always going to have to _listen_ to Tony. The man _talked,_ quickly and constantly, and often while fiddling with something that occupied his hands.

Clint usually found himself switching to a simple dictation spell for conversations – an easy thing to cast on a pair of sunglasses or contact lenses, or even on his own hand – but it didn’t work too well if the person was moving. Or facing away from him. Or speaking so quickly that the spell started dropping words, and Clint couldn’t read in time to keep up and respond. Tony Stark could apparently out talk magic, which left Clint stuck, tapping his wand behind his ears every few hours, trying to ignore the growing pressure behind his eyes. He sighed.

“Almost done.”

“Right, Mist- I mean, yeah.” Clint fidgeted, trying to adjust to the heavy vest that had just been strapped over a matching dragonhide jacket and trousers. “Right, Tony.”

“Atta boy.” Tony handed Clint a glove. The buckle on the wrist tightened automatically after he slid it on, just perfectly snug. Stepping back, the older wizard circled him with slow, half-backwards steps, hand on his chin as he looked over the uniform. Tony nodded, handing off the other glove, then started settling the helmet and visor over Clint’s face.

It wasn’t all strictly necessary for what they’d hired him to do – oven mitts would have served well enough for handling baby Norbies – but he still had to be fitted for this awful dragon-fire safe suit, resembling a mishmash of hazmat and riot gear. Everyone at Shield needed to be able to fill in if there was an emergency, and that meant a full dragonhide suit.

Clint had been squeamish at first, and only felt a little better knowing it was going to be made from older dragons that had been culled out or put down. Still, he could admire how expertly crafted the whole thing was; he felt almost guilty putting on something that had taken so much time and effort. The gear was fitted exactly to his measurements, as well, which meant that Tony had managed to put the entire thing together in just over a week.

It was warm, but not uncomfortable so, and – unlike the gear he’d been leant elsewhere for his internship and site visits – it didn’t smell like old hotdogs. The hide he now wore was also the closest he’d come to one of the dragons since he’d been here. He rubbed his gloved hand gently over the edge of the jacket, tracing the false sediment lines on the hide. It wasn’t very attractive, but that was to be expected; the dragons weren’t that attractive either.

Northern rough-necked butte hoppers were not anything that Clint would have called pretty, even by draconic standards. With squat bodies covered in scales that mimicked striated shale, thick, flat heads with rings of spikes at the neck, and nearly vestigial wings, he’d always thought they looked more like rock carvings of horned-lizards. Though, honestly, that was an insult to the lizards, who at least had the sense to defend themselves. Norbies were generally docile, easily startled into running, and, on the whole, about as dumb as the rocks they called home.

The problem was, sometimes they were too skittish to properly look after their own clutches, leaving hatchlings to fend for themselves. At just over four ounces when they hatched, baby Norbies looked harmless and cute; at least until they started burping out little sputters of violet flame. The preserve was as much for the safety of the muggle public at large than anything else. Those tiny babies would grow, and, even if Norbies were small for dragons, they were still big enough – and dumb enough – to ramble off with a cow every once in a while. Their small size made them prime targets for poaching as well; lots of wizards would pay to have a pet dragon, even if it did look like a squinty-eyed boulder with a tail.

“So,” Tony gave the straps of his helmet a last little tug, then flipped down the crystal visor as he stepped back around in front of Clint. “Give me an elevator pitch on Norbies. Shortest description you can.”

“They’re pretty slow and lumpy. They’re some of the only dragons that can breathe fire right after they hatch, and they look a lot like horny-toads with wings.”

“Exactly right. Your basic Norby is a rock with an appetite.” Tony stepped away, then apparated off with a _pop_. It took Clint a few moments to realize he’d only wound up on one of the many walkways above this particular workshop. “But,” he could see the smirk bloom across Tony’s face, even from the floor, “do you know what happens when they get pissy?”

Clint reflexively took a step back towards the door, eyes still on Tony. “Uh… no, not really.”

“Brace yourself,” was the last thing Tony said before the garage door at the far end of the workshop rolled up.

Norbies didn’t so much run as clumsily amble. Unless threatened, Clint knew, most of them could easily be outrun, definitely outflown. He knew they didn’t really _breathe_ fire; they drooled out a sticky goo that they lit aflame. He knew that they could only launch it about twenty feet, and that it burnt off almost too quickly to cause damage. But all of that knowledge didn’t help when face to face with eight feet of teeth on the front of a galumphing, huffing, dragon.

‘ _I should have apparated, too.’_ was the penultimate thought screaming through his brain as the van-sized creature opened its mouth. ‘ _Oh, right: Purple fire.’_ was the last.

The flammable gunk flowed over him, lighting near instantly as he yelled. “Stark?!” Clint could see the oily sputum dribbling off his glove, down his visor, flames dancing lavender and white. It was near blinding for an instant before it was gone, the fire guttering loudly.

The dragon sat on its haunches, scratching along its neck with one arm, and laid down.

Clint felt very proud for not having wet himself.

A sharp _snap_ sounded off to his right as Jarvis apparated in at his side, tossing a bucket of ashy dust over him to put out the last flickers of violet flame, ears drooping in sympathy. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Barton.” The little elf sighed, casting his eyes back to Tony as he popped back onto the floor. “This is why they won’t reassign us to the Klamath Lace-wing Preserve, sir; you keep frightening off the recruits.”

“Don’t fuss. Kid knew we were going to test this today, and he’s fine. Right, Clint?” Tony stepped gingerly around the few still smoking spots on the floor, standing opposite Jarvis, off to Clint’s left, lifting the visor up. “Did you feel anything?”

If he’d have been able to take it off by himself, Clint would have apparated straight out of the workshop, gear and all. This man was absolutely insane; and also, a complete dick. “Scared shitless?! Pretty sure I felt _that_.”

Tony was already turning Clint’s head left and right, eyes focused on his face as Jarvis began to sweep away the flame-retardant dust. “No heat? Burning? Itching? Have you always had freckles?”

“Y-yes?”

“Good, great.” Tony stepped up into his space, wand tapping the main buckle across his chest, and Clint felt all of the straps of his gear loosen at once. “Let’s get this off, we need to check a few things.”

As careful as he had been in putting all of this on Clint, Tony was reckless in getting the dragonhide suit off, flinging pieces willy-nilly, leaving poor Jarvis to pile the cast-off pieces in an empty section of the floor. The chalky extinguishing dust drifted in the air, leaving him coughing, unarmoured and a mess, as Tony once more paced around him, rambling off to himself.

“You growing, Clint? I mean, yeah, you still might, you’re young. Jarvis, we need to keep the ease in the cuffs.” Tony tugged at the back of his shirt, tongue clicking, “Little singeing from T-2 to T-4 – got some shoulders on you, dontcha? – We’re going to need to add an extra layer back there under the lapped-seam.”

Patting Clint’s shoulder a final time, he came to a stop in front of him, hands at his chin and hip, a pensive sideways smile on his face. Tony glanced over his shoulder. “Did I miss anything, Jarvis?”

The house-elf tugged at his cuff, heavy brows raised. He looked, first from Tony, then over to Clint, ears drooping, and sighed. “I believe you may have forgotten that people do not generally expect to be lit aflame so soon after breakfast… _sir._ ”

In that moment, Clint really loved the little elf.

Looking shocked, but not at all apologetic, Tony turned back to face him. “Probably should have warned you that was happening-”

“Maybe?!”

“- but you took it like a champ. That’s the worst you’ll ever get. C’mere.” Tony grabbed at him again and, this time, Clint shrugged away from his hand. Still, he followed as the older wizard walked up to the side of the dozing dragon in the middle of the room.

Bare-handed, Tony reached out to rub behind the second line of spines along the dragon’s neck. It burped out a last dribble of flame along its chin, but Tony didn’t seem to mind. “Old Dummy can’t be out in the preserve full-time with him down a wing, but he’s good for testing the equipment.” He smiled indulgently, going up on tiptoe, scratching atop the Norby’s head. “You can pet him.”

Without anything but a spelled pullover and his jeans on, Clint wasn’t entirely sure he _wanted_ to get up close with the dragon, again, but it seemed docile enough, sleepily leaning in to be petted. “Is he tame?” he asked, running his fingers along a ridge of bone.

“Officially, no; ministry regulations prohibit the purposeful taming of endangered magical creatures for use as domestic pets or for keeping as livestock.” Tony’s voice sounded so serious that, for a moment, Clint believed him. Then he winked, elbow knocking into Clint’s side as he shook his head. When he answered, his voice held strong note of fondness. “But, yeah, he’s basically a big dumb dog. Except the whole fire thing.”

What Tony said seemed to be true. As they continued to rub along his neck, Dummy rolled onto his side, his single stumpy wing fanning out on the floor. He growled – or maybe this was purring – blinking muddy eyes back at the two wizards.

“Hey, Clint, thanks for being such a good sport.” Tony shrugged, hands slipping in to his pockets. “We’re all done for today, so you’re free for the afternoon. Jarvis will get you an apron and gloves, and some goggles; you’re in with Barnes starting tomorrow.”

“Bucky?” The name squeaked out of Clint as a question, high-pitched and nervous, his hand stilling.

No longer being petted by anyone, Dummy rolled back onto his belly and closed his eyes. Clint honestly thought he would rather stay here getting fire-puked on him than face down a full day with Bucky Barnes. Just considering it made him want to see if he couldn’t get the Norby to _accidentally_ toast him. Not fatally; only enough to put him out of commission for a week or so until he could get another job or find a suitable rock to crawl under. Wouldn’t be too hard, not around here.

He must have spaced out, or frozen for a moment, in panic; it felt like he’d only blinked, but Tony was standing in front of him. He pointed to Clint, spelling out _OK_ with his fingers, head tilted in question. “Clint? Are you alright? I promise, no more big, scary fireballs for a while, yeah? Hill won’t let you on rounds for a couple months, anyway.”

“Yeah, I’m fine… I’m just… ya know?” He ran his fingers through his hair, sending a fall of dust to the ground. Clint smiled wanly as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Nervous?”

“Oh, yeah, first day, right? But don’t worry. Bucky isn’t as scary as he looks. Or sounds. Or acts.” Leaning back against the sleeping dragon, Tony offered a reassuring nod as he patted its weathered hide. “He’s kinda like this guy, except, you know, probably a bad idea to pet him.”

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“You oughtn’t concern yourself about tomorrow, Mr. Barton.” The heels of Jarvis’ wing-tips echoed on the floor as he led Clint back out through another storage room. He stopped and rolled aside a set of shelves, almost crawling onto the set behind them as he reached for something near the back. “Mr. Barnes is really rather pleasant. Much quieter than sir.” Jarvis pulled out a pair of goggles, handing them up to him.

“Thank you, Jarvis. And Clint is fine. Or, um…” Clint formed a _C_ near his forehead, then brought it down into the hooked beak of a hawk. He almost shifted into an _H_ , but that nickname was mostly for family, anyway. “That’s my name sign.”

“Very good, Mr. Barton, I shall remember that.” Jarvis repeated the motion, “Clint? Like this?” looking up at him for approval, ears perking when Clint nodded.

He pulled out a full bib apron and a pair of elbow length hide gloves from another set shelves, handing each to Clint in turn. Jarvis gently dusted a bit of the fire-extinguishing powder from his own cuff, face scrunching as he looked at the little cloud still drifting down off of Clint’s own clothes. “As you have the afternoon to yourself, might I suggest a bath?”

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Clint had to settle for a quick shower instead of a bath. He had no idea who had booked time for the bathtub, not bothering to check the little sign-up chart they were supposed to use, but the door had been locked, _DO NOT DISTURB_ hovering in a bold sparkling red when he touched the handle.

Once he was clean, he went back to his room to start the enchantments on his work goggles. The transcription spell he’d used for some of his classes would have worked fine on its own, but Clint found that adjusting the colour of the words helped more for conversation, especially with more than one person. He had once managed to get twelve individualized colours to work on the goggles he wore for quidditch.

Plus, if he could combine it with the spell on his door, he might be able to transcribe anything within ear shot. It probably _still_ wouldn’t be enough for him to keep up with Tony at full ramble, but it would at least tip him off to someone talking behind him.

Sitting at the desk in in a loose pair of sweatpants, with Lucky fluttering over to perch on his head, Clint lost himself in the familiar repetition of _spell, test,_ and _respell_. He had to leave the goggles on to test them, which wasn't the most comfortable arrangement, but he could manage.

It wasn’t until he saw his doorframe blink in his periphery that he even thought about the time. And who would be other side of the door to see Clint open it in ugly pants and with a bird on his head except, of course, Bucky Barnes.

His right hand was still raised to knock, and a plate of food was balanced on his left. He was wearing another sweatshirt – Clint wondered how he didn’t get hot in the hatchery all covered up like that – and his hair was beginning to slip out of its tie, little wisps falling around his face. He sighed, lifting the plate higher, right hand coming up toward his mouth. ‘ _Food.’_

“Sorry!” He must have shouted; Bucky physically winced. Clint rested his hand below his throat, feeling to keep his volume in a better range. “Sorry about that. I was working on these for tomorrow. They’ll transcribe what you’re saying on the lenses, mostly, so you can just talk to me.”

Bucky blinked, head tipping slightly in question. _‘¿ LIKE. .SUBTITLES?’_

“Yeah. Exactly like that.”

 _‘.OH. .THAT’S. .USEFUL.’_ Nodding, the other wizard pushed the plate in against Clint’s chest. _‘¿ SO. .ARE. .YOU. .GONNA. .TAKE. .THE. .FOOD?’_

“Oh, yes.” He took the plate, some sort of casserole that, thankfully, was not burnt. Clint thought he brushed his hand against the curve of something metal underneath – the handle of a knife, maybe? – but Bucky didn’t hand him anything besides the plate. “Thank you.”

 _’.SURE.’_ Bucky shrugged, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. _ ‘.I’M. .GONNA. .GO. .DO. .THE. .LAST. .TURN. .FOR. .THE. .NIGHT.’ ‘DON’T. .BE. .LATE. .TOMOR-’_ He stopped mid-sentence and scowled, eyes cutting sideways as he turned his head. _‘¡ DAMNIT. .STEVIE. .YES. .I. .BROUGHT. .HIM. .HIS. .FOOD!’ _Bucky nodded once more in his direction, then stormed off down the hall, purposefully knocking his shoulder into Steve as they passed. _ ‘.SEVEN.’ ‘DON’T. .BE. .LATE.’_

Steve fumbled – ‘ _Worried. You okay?’_ – beginning to speak, but then stopping, likely because he realized he didn’t know how to sign what he needed to say.

Clint reached out to pat his arm, tapping the goggles he wore with his other hand. “Tweaked these, so now you come with subtitles.”

‘ _¿ REALLY?’ ‘.THAT’S. .HANDY.’ _Steve laughed; there was nothing to indicate it on the frames, but Steve seemed to laugh with his whole body. Given how he spoke, it was probably the kind of overwhelming laugh that made you want to see what was so funny. Steve nodded down the hall, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. _‘.WE. .WERE. .WORRIED. .TONY. .HAD. .RUN. .YOU ..OFF.’_

“It would take more than a few seconds of pants shitting terror to do that. But I should probably eat and go to sleep so I’m not _late_.” Clint grinned sheepishly, hefting the plate as he stepped back to close his door. “Sorry for the trouble. Goodnight, Steve.”

 _’.GOODNIGHT.’ _He turned, talking to himself as he walked back to his own room, the words drifting across Clint’s vision as he shut his door. _‘.THANK. .GOD.’ ‘.STARK’S. .A. .DAMN. .MENA-’_

Clint snickered, sitting down at his desk to eat. He wasn’t really that hungry, but he would have felt bad to not eat after someone had taken the time to bring him food. Especially because it was _that_ someone.

He couldn’t help it when, only for a moment, he glanced back at the right corner of his mattress.

Lucky flitted down from his hair, nipping the edge of his hand before making a grab at a bit of the cheese baked onto the top of his dinner. Clint gently pushed him back, but pulled off a bit of cheese and rice for him, anyway. “Weirdo.”

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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint can be flexible, and even manages to put his foot in his mouth on his first day of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some more liberties with wizarding photographs this chapter. There is a passing mention of past abuse in this chapter.

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Clint didn’t have to worry about being on time the next morning; he wasn’t sure he’d slept at all, only knowing he’d spent far too long staring at his ceiling as Lucky cooed against his forehead. He gave up around three, dragging himself out of bed to dress, shave, and shuffle down to the empty kitchen.

It took some digging – and a brief moment to question who decided that coffee belonged _behind_ the flour – but he eventually managed to get a pot made. Mug in hand, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and slumped into a dining chair. Clint was pretty sure he dozed off for a time because he was still nursing his second cup when Steve wandered in at half past four.

He was in another knitted pullover – Clint briefly wondered who would take the time to _knit_ a camouflage sweater vest – and followed Clint’s lead, opting for cereal as well. Steve sat across from him with a too chipper smile, hands moving carefully. ‘ _Night… good?’_

Clint shook his head, talking around a mouthful of cereal. “Slept like garbage.”

‘ _Sorry.’_ Steve frowned, eyes flicking up to the top of Clint’s head. Neither his sunglasses nor his goggles were up there right now, Lucky snuggled down and dozing in his hair.

Clint fished his wand out of his pocket, awkwardly circling his ears with it left-handed as he kept eating. “No problem. Just nerves.”

“Maybe lay off the coffee?” Steve eyed Clint’s cup while spooning more sugar than was even reasonably unhealthy into his own.

He swallowed, downing the rest of his current cup and getting up for a refill and another bowl of cereal. “I can be functional and a little twitchy, or I can be an unpleasant mumbling lump, Steve.”

Once he settled back into his seat, Clint nudged at Lucky, dropping a few dry cornflakes in his hair for the little bird to drowsily peck at. He noticed Steve staring at him a few minutes later, eyes flicking from the mug in his hands up to Clint, and sighed. He knew how this looked. “I get that it’s weird, but he was hand-fed as a chick, and now he has this thing for human food. Don’t worry; I make sure he gets enough protein and stuff.”

“Oh; that’s great, but I was just kinda surprised.” Steve took another sip of his coffee, smiling around the rim as he did. “I mean, this coffee: This is good.”

“Um… Thanks? It’s the same stuff we’ve been drinking, unless I just found somebody’s secret stash behind the baking supplies?”

“No, that’s it, but this is _really_ good. How’d you do it?” He gulped down the rest of his own cup, making Clint internally wince at the thought of the kind of sugar rush he would have going in a few minutes. Steve leaned in across the table, far too awake and excited for this time of day. “This coffee has _never_ not tasted like someone ran it through an ash-tray full of burnt socks. What’s the secret?”

“Just some ground cloves, a little chicory, and a pinch of salt?” Clint didn’t really think of it as anything secret, or really _that_ special. It wasn’t like he had magically made the coffee better; it was just an old trick Mr. Coulson had showed him for perking up ministry coffee. Clint hadn’t thought it was _that_ much better – it still tasted pretty burnt – but maybe Steve was just really bad at making it. “It’s a family recipe.”

“Well, either you’re teaching me how to do this, or you’re mixing the coffee from here on out.” Steve stood, grabbing a second mug and filling both, though he put only two reasonable spoonfuls of sugar in the second, as opposed to heaping in five for his own. “You would have been worth hiring just for the coffee!”

“Um… Thanks, I guess?” Making coffee in time for the older wizard to enjoy it each morning easily sounded like a fate worse than death by very dumb dragon.

Steve was still nodding happily to himself, humming in that infuriating way that only a morning person could, as he tucked the box of cereal under his arm. Mug in each hand, he walked out of the dining room, leaving Clint alone with his half-eaten bowl and a lingering sense of confusion.

Atop his head, Lucky chirped, and then fluttered down to the tabletop. He nosed his way under Clint’s hand with a tittering trill, feathers puffing cutely. Clint glanced at the wall clock, rubbing the little owl’s head. _04:55._ Too much time to get ready, not enough to nap. At least he would be showing up early for his first real day of work.

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Clint had arrived at the hatchery at six-fifteen, having taken as much time as he possibly could, and still feeling way too ahead of schedule.

Bucky was already there, leaning against one of the empty nest-boxes in the anteroom, holding a cup of coffee. Or at least Clint had to _assume_ it was Bucky; aside from the tell-tale knot of hair and the beard, he was close to unrecognizable compared to the few times Clint had seen him earlier.

Not that Clint wasn’t pretty covered up himself. In a vest with his apron over it, elbow length dragonhide gloves, kneepads, and half-face goggles, he felt almost like he was getting ready to fly out onto the world’s most violent quidditch pitch. By comparison, Bucky was dressed like he might have been going off to battle. Or like he maybe already had.

In place of Clint’s sleeveless vest, he wore a full leather jacket, buttoned at an angle across his chest, beneath his apron. The pants weren’t dragonhide, but they certainly weren’t lightly warded jeans either, the heavy grey canvas criss-crossed with pockets and little straps, and tucked into rugged black work boots.

His gloves were mismatched; the right was a more worn version of the ones Clint wore, but the left was some sort of fitted metal gauntlet, covered with a fingerless hide glove around the palm and wrist. The overlapping bands of burnished, flame-tarnished steel continued up under the cuff of his jacket. Bucky's goggles were pretty standard looking, if a little wide, masking off most of the upper half of his face, but it was the lower portion that made the whole ensemble look more menacing. A strange leather something – half dust-mask and half muzzle – was hanging loosely against that half of his face, one band looping above and below his left ear.

Clint froze for a moment as he took it all in, mildly concerned that his co-worker looked not unlike someone who murdered people for a living, very much concerned that he found about half of the look pretty damn hot. That was probably why his question came out so teasingly. “Am I underdressed?”

Bucky shrugged and tapped the mask, taking a sip from his cup. “Not really. Just been burned in the face too many times not to wear this if I wanna keep the beard.”

“Yeah, but I mean, do I _need_ something like…” Clint traced a waggling line in the direction of Bucky’s heavy-duty jacket and glove.

“No.” Bucky’s eyes weren’t visible behind the goggles, but Clint could see his brows pull down and his jaw tighten. Barnes tipped back the last of his coffee, setting it on the edge of the box, and pulling the guard back over his face. Though muffled, the growled edge was still hard behind his words. “C’mon, newbie. We’ve got rocks to tend.”

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Bucky had spent the first hour of the morning grumpily walking Clint through the hatchery, explaining the workings of their job in a relentless, sharp-edged grumble, made all the harder for Clint to understand because he couldn’t actually _see_ the man talking. Still, he did his best to keep up, and to not _fuck_ up.

Clint listened attentively as the shorter man ran through the list of various substrates, when to use them, and how to layer them to best mimic a real nest. Bucky showed him the runes and settings for each type of box furnace, how to feed the flames, and – more importantly – when and how to put them out, with a warning to, “ _Maybe get a headband, and be prepared to lose an eyebrow or two.”_ He went over the rotation schedule, pointing out that Clint was going to be taking over nights once Bucky was sure he could handle it.

Now, though, Clint was finally getting to actually do some of what he’d come here for. He and Bucky were standing beside one of the low-walled nest boxes, peering down at the eggs. Or, at least, Bucky assured him that those were, in fact, _actually_ dragon eggs.

He had known they were camouflaged, but the eggs literally _did_ look like rocks. They weren’t even round, each one appearing slightly weathered or tumbled, but not at all like _anything_ that an animal might have laid.

Bucky brushed away more of the sand with his left hand, barely lifting the egg in his right. “They don’t come out this solid, usually. The edges form once the shell hardens up.”

“I was wondering. Those look like they would have been… _painful_.”

“Just hope we don’t get another egg-bound female this year. It ain’t pretty.” Bucky nodded sagely.

As Clint watched, he rotated it a quarter turn to the right, then dug out the hole a bit more. Bucky lowered the egg with care, tucking it back under the sand and gravel, leaving the top-most surface exposed. “Quarter turn right, every six hours, for eight weeks. Each clutch is quarantined, so that means gloves through the decontamination box after each batch.”

Clint nodded. They’d gone over aural contamination between clutches laid by different dragons earlier. He knew that they couldn’t risk cross-mixing of the natural protective magic around the eggs; not unless they wanted to deal with deformed hatchlings or risk blowing something up. Bucky assured him that it had only happened once before. “Right.”

“Okay, you’re fresh, so I’ll take this side, you take the other.” Bucky nodded to the back side of the hexagonal box.

Clint took his position opposite the other man and began mimicking his actions. He gently lifted each stony lump, turning them carefully, then tucking them back in, burying each with chalky sand as he did. Their similar appearance to rocks notwithstanding, they were still somewhat leathery, and he could feel the barest sloshing of fluid through his gloves with each one. It toed the line of awe-inspiring and nauseating.

Having already finished his own side, Bucky was waiting by the decon-box when he was finished. It looked to have once been a toaster oven of some kind, but as if someone had put a round cat-flap on one side and covered it in magical wards. Clint slid off his gloves, waiting as Bucky removed one, but not the other.

Instead, he shoved the whole lower portion of his arm in through the little round side-opening, then activated the series of spells that would clear away any residual magic.

Clint watched, rocking on his heels as they waited. “So… is the metal lined glove rank-based? Or is it to stop from getting bit?”

“What?”

“I mean, I get not wanting to take off your coat and stuff to put it in there, but it seems kinda inconvenient? Is that why you only have the one?” A little bell dinged, the door to the decon-box opening automatically, and Clint reached in for his gloves. Snagging Bucky’s, as well, he held it out for the other man, who seemed to be fiddling with his left cuff.

“Guess nobody said anything.” Bucky tugged the fingerless hide glove from his left hand and pushed up his sleeve, which Clint could now see buttoned down the side. The metal plates kept going, far further than Clint had thought they would. Bucky spoke, voice softly resigned. “Tony made it for me.”

Clint had to blink a few times before he realized he wasn’t looking at another glove or a gauntlet, but at the man’s left hand and arm. He leaned forward, almost touching before he looked up for permission.

Brows drawing down, slow and wary, Bucky nodded.

It was an amazing prosthetic; metal and what looked almost like lacquered wood, everything but the fingers covered with runes and writing all the way up to the edge where it disappeared under his sleeve at the elbow. Some of the movement and sensation charms were variations Clint could recognize, while others were combined in ways he’d never seen before. From what he could piece together, he could guess that it probably _felt_ like a real hand, at least from Bucky’s perspective. “It’s beautiful.”

Tony might be more than a little crazy, but this proved he was just as much a genius. The hand – hell, the _arm_ – was an fascinating bit of spellwork and engineering. It was only when he had grasped Bucky’s wrist, turning it slightly as he looked, that Clint realized his earlier phrasing might not have come across quite like he’d intended. He let go, fumbling his words as he stepped back. “I mean, not that you wouldn’t want your real hand, or maybe you didn’t, I dunno, but, um… yeah… It’s, uh, neat.”

“Thanks…” Bucky rolled his eyes, but it almost seemed like he smiled while he did. He pulled the glove on and motioned Clint to follow him to the next clutch of eggs.

Once they were finished, it was back to decon. Then it was on to the next clutch. They worked their way through each half-clutch in turn, silent save for the shush of brushed sand. It was another hour, long enough that his hearing charm from breakfast had worn off, before Bucky waved at him from his left. He must have said something, but the mask covered his mouth, mumbling the words and keeping Clint from getting more than a few garbled syllables.

_‘ ¿OT. .ASH. .OW?’_

Having just finished covering his last egg, Clint shook his head and shrugged, ear tapping his shoulder before he signed back. _‘Sorry.’_

His co-worker nodded.

He followed Bucky back to the decon box, and, once the gloves were off, took a moment to slip his wand from the pocket inside his vest. Clint only charmed one ear; he was starting to get a little bit of a headache already. “Sorry. It’s hard to follow you with the mask in the way.”

Bucky unclipped the face guard. He tipped his chin toward his left hand, once again, shoved into the box, as he spoke. “Not gonna ask how?”

“It’s not really my business.” Clint tipped his chin into his hand, looking down at Bucky’s arm inside the decontamination box. “If it was a work accident, I might want to avoid whatever did that, but, otherwise, why should it matter?”

He was being perfectly honest about the whole thing. It wasn’t like Clint hadn’t seen more than a few magical prostheses before. When he’d been stuck in St. Mungos for that long stretch of his first fifth year, he had been on a ward with dozens of witches and wizards who’d lost limbs. A replaced hand, as opposed to a nose, or a tongue, or – Clint shuddered; best not to think of _that_ one… – was really not uncommon. Still, he could understand Bucky’s surprise well enough, especially after having gotten shit for his hearing aids as a kid.

“Mm.” Finished, Bucky pulled his hand free, tugging out the gloves and handing Clint’s back to him. “Work _accident_ , yeah, but it wasn’t here.”

“Alright then. What’s next?”

⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛⟗⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛

They had kept at it for the rest of the day, on and off in shifts for twelve full hours. A full rotation of all the eggs only took about two hours, leaving almost four hours in between rounds. That didn’t mean they got to rest, though. Downtime was spent recording the progress of each clutch, tracking their gestation time and colour, as well as checking the furnaces and temperatures of each artificial nest. Beyond that, they had to be ready for anything _else_ that might need their attention on the preserve.

In this case, that meant managing a class tour for a group of rising seventh year students, here at the Shield Preserve for their first site visit, a last stop before the start of their final year in school. Or, more accurately, it meant _Bucky_ walking them through the hatchery, while Clint scrambled to keep up with the rotation schedule for the last four hours of the day. In was interesting to watch Buck work, giving the students watered down versions of the same advice he’d shared with Clint earlier, minus the terrifying murder mask and scowl. Clint had to wonder at that; maybe Bucky was only gruff with him?

Given the guilt now living as a permanent guest low in his gut, Clint couldn’t help wondering if that might be the case. It had been on his mind since they wrapped for the day, gnawing away at his composure past the end of their shift. The worry had carried on through dinner and a shower, following him all the way to bed.

He knew wizarding photographs weren’t like paintings – the inhabitants didn’t wander off to tell what they’d seen – but he was still nervous. There was always a risk.

Clint rolled over, cheek tucked in the crook of his elbow, fighting the urge to open his trunk and check.

His first Christmas home from school, after he’d found those shots, but before he’d really mentioned them to anyone, he’d asked Mr. Coulson if there was a way to really get rid of wizarding photos. Maybe even recycle them.

His caseworker had frowned, tugging a bit at his tie before he answered Clint’s question: The only real way to destroy an original, film photograph was to let it rot away or to burn it, and the subject would feel it in the latter case.

At twelve, Clint hadn’t wanted even to imagine inflicting that on somebody else. He'd _been_ burned, with the little round scars from cigarettes dotting the skin under his sleeves as proof. The handsome older boy in the photos, with his pretty hair and soft, inviting eyes, definitely hadn’t been somebody Clint wanted to hurt.

Not then.

Not now.

Especially not after _last_ Christmas. It had been an accident, when he and Wanda had been playing fireball tag just a _tad_ too close to the house, and the younger witch had sent a tiny flaming marble straight through the window. The little fireball had wedged in a frame on the mantle, burning through just a portion of his shoulder and chest from a picture that, honestly, he would rather have seen destroyed, anyway. The pain had sent him straight onto the ground, body curled in tightly, clutching at his ribs and rocking in the light snow.

There was no way he was going to torch those photos now. Even if Bucky was kind of aloof – hell, even if he was a total _asshole_ – he didn't deserve _that_ kind of full-body pain. Plus, there was always the risk that he might put two and two together; someone from his old school house showing up, and then suddenly something like _that_ happening. Clint couldn’t risk it.

He rolled in the other direction, pulling one of his pillows over his head with a frustrated whine. Tomorrow was another day. He needed to sleep.

⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛⟗⟛⟕⟛⟖⟛

“Shoo. Shoo. Go away, you’re at the wrong address!” Tony was hanging half out of the window a week later when Clint came down for breakfast, yelling at something outside.

Clint heard the familiar crowing _whoop_ of an owl. Mail, then.

Tony pulled his head back in, dropping a bundle of letters onto the counter as he groused back into the kitchen. “Damn thing keeps bringing these by. You would at least think an _auror’s_ owl would have the sense to know it’s in the wrong place, but it still wants us to feed it.”

The owl hooted, again, loudly. This time, Lucky peeped back, and Clint looked up. “Redwing!” The barred owl hooted, lifting one wing in a strange little wave, and he grinned. “Hey, buddy! How’s it been?”

Leaving his coffee and muffin on the table, Clint squeezed past Carol and Steve, reaching the owl and extending his arm.

With a dignified little nod, and a quick head-swivel that cast his large black eyes from Clint to Tony and back, Redwing walked carefully up his arm, official Ministry tag jingling with each shuffle, until he was perched on Clint’s shoulder. He hooted over at Lucky, who peeped a few times before batting a wing against the top of the larger owl’s head.

“Sorry, guys. This is my old roommate’s owl. Lucky was never a great flyer, so sometimes he used to bring in my mail. Guess he’s still at it.” Clint scratched up under Redwing’s chin. “You’re a long way from the Derby, though, buddy.”

“Wait… Your roommate’s an apprentice auror _already?”_ Tony was still glaring over his glasses at the bird on Clint’s shoulder, arms crossing his chest. “It’s _barely_ September.”

“Oh, yeah, but he’s a first year? First class, I guess? He just finished his apprenticeship back in March.” Clint grabbed a little piece of sausage that had been left clinging in the pan, offering it to the owl.

Redwing accepted with a cooing whistle, picking the meat from between his fingers. At Lucky’s shrill tweet, Clint lifted up a tiny portion to him as well.

“Okay,” this time it was Carol who spoke up, pressing her words out as she asked, “but _how,_ if you just graduated?”

“Oh, um… I’m two years behind. Had some family stuff and some medical issues.” He was immensely grateful to have the owls to deal with instead of having to look at his coworkers. He assumed someone at Shield had to have read his file, but maybe they hadn’t been looking too closely. He _did_ sort of have a baby face, combined with being so blond that his stubble was barely noticeable until the third or fourth day of growth. Clint probably _looked_ like what they’d expected from a normal seventh year graduate. He tried to keep his focus on the birds, though he was swiftly running out of sausage leavings.

“Wait, how old _are_ you?”

Clint flicked his eyes up to meet Bucky’s confused stare. “Twenty, now. I was nineteen at the end of term.”

“It wasn’t too bad.” That was easier than saying that both experiences _behind_ his tardy graduation had been absolutely awful. The rest of the Shield team didn’t need to know that, and Clint didn’t really want to share it, either. “Sam got out on time, so I was just roomed with Scott for my last two years.” He hoped that finality came through in his tone.

Lucky peeped, begging for something else to eat, now that he had run out of scraps.

“Well, I’m glad you know that owl; that bird has been here before.” Director Hill stood up, sliding around to open a drawer next to Clint. She pulled out two bundles of mail, setting them atop the newest stack. “I kept meaning to send this back, but…” She turned back to him with a wry smile. “I assume that makes you the ‘Hawkeye’ that all the lost mail’s been coming in for, huh?”

Clint blinked. “I was getting mail?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Hill nodded with a sideways smile. “Here you go, _Hawkeye_.”

The pile of letters was bigger than he expected; Clint could only guess that everyone he knew must have decided to send him a letter at the same time. There were _seven_ howlers, too. Sam had been busy. Hopefully, not too crude, though. He tucked the stack beneath his arm, walking Redwing back to the window.

Satisfied that he’d make it back to the rookery well enough on his own – he was much smarter than Lucky, after all – Clint retook his seat at the table, tucking back in to his breakfast. He was halfway through his second muffin when Steve asked.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Sam Wilson’s Hawkeye, would you?”

“Yesh.” Clint swallowed. “Yes. Do you know Sam?”

“I did his final evaluation last year. Saw him writing off howlers almost every day for _Hawkeye_.” Steve leaned back, coffee mug lifted in a little salute back at Clint. “He spoke very… _highly_ of you.”

The lilt in Steve’s words was mildly unsettling, to the point that it took Clint a few moments to put together the rest of what the older man had said. “You’re _that_ Auror Rogers?”

Steve nodded, adding in a little wink, and Clint had to fight not to stare, now, himself.

He had spent a full two years reading Sam’s letters, chronicling his auror testing and apprenticeship, as told through a steady series of howlers. The screeching red letters had started as a joke – “ _Can you hear me NOW, Hawkeye?!”_ – but had evolved into a running joke between the two of them. Sam’s howlers were just as funny and ridiculous as his other letters, only screamed out loudly enough that Clint really _could_ hear them with his ears unspelled. He had been asked, and had swiftly agreed, to open his mail outside on the commons a month into his sixth year.

It had only gotten worse in the six months starting in January, when Sam had begun his evaluation process, and subsequently started gushing over the of astounding – often frightening – exploits of Aurors Rogers and Carter. There were stories that made Clint laugh, and others that left him wondering if his best friend had a mentor with some sort of insane death wish. There was one involving an octopus cult that made Clint glad howlers were self-destroying, and one about the current minister and a flock of murderous chickens that made him wish they weren’t.

Sane or otherwise, all of them were memorable, and none of what he’d read squared with the man he’d seen every morning for the past few weeks. Aside from getting up at the ass-crack of dawn, there was nothing about Steve that screamed _amazingly adventurous auror_. As far as Clint had known, he was a big, pleasant guy who ingested far more sugar than any normal person ought to and had a somewhat silly, loping run. He wore hideous hand-knit sweaters and vests, usually with ill-fitting (read _too small_ ) t-shirts, was a terrible cook, and couldn’t carry a tune in a tin can. But, if Sam was to be believed, his doofy dork of a co-worker was some kind of wizarding hero, and Clint truly wasn’t sure what to say beyond asking, “What are you doing _here?”_

From Steve’s other side, Bucky mumbled down into his coffee. “What _indeed?”_

Hearing that gripe, Clint tried to walk his statement back, if only a little. “I mean, Wales is pretty far, isn’t it?”

“We’re allowed to rotate our assignments when we’re not on active cases, so I do.” Steve smiled back at him, but Clint didn’t miss the way his elbow snapped hard into Bucky’s ribs. “I started off here, though. I’d miss it if I stayed away too long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lucky is a golden-coloured (because magic and I say so) northern Saw-whet owl](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_saw-whet_owl), [and sounds like this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwgTcxjLnTo)  
> [Redwing is an northern barred owl](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barred_owl), [and sounds like this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbtGYO1zO9E)
> 
> For simple perspective, Redwing is a stereotypical, _this is an owl-sized bird _owl, whereas Lucky is about the size of a large robin; Redwing hoots, but Lucky literally _peeps.___


End file.
